Saturday, 23 April 2011

Christ On A Bike

Little Rock Godling on a bike.

What? Ok - Last week I drove another 45 mins up to the football pitches for some footie tournament thing with the brakes a-grindin' and arrived pitch-side to see Jack Russell boy's been subbed, the other team score and then the final whistle blew. Joy. 'You missed my wonder goal' he said. 'They all played really well' enthused his chum's mum. 'Really?' I gurned. What parallel universe are they all living in? Well.... maybe I just missed a miracle. Then they discover they have one more match. Ok, I shall see this amazing transformation of the dopiest team on earth for myself. Just then J R Boy spotted some other little mates on their bikes through a gap in the hedge so we bounded over and they ended up watching the final match with us. Embarrassing. Dopey United play like their usual hopeless selves. The dream is over. But as a consolation we end up spending the rest of the day with this less dopey gang, having adventures round a lake, sharing bikes and kicking a football at geese.

This is no ordinary football by the way. This is THE ball. The object of many discussions. A treasure to be kept in turn for a month by several loonigans. This hallowed orb came from the sea. After the glorious return to the wild of the leopard shark the other day dahn Hastings (pron. 'Astings), we all watched a man in a rowing boat appear from the horizon and slowly approach until he was near enough to bestow upon the first child to reach out, The Ball. And then he rowed away again. The Ball is a 2010 World Cup football. The one that buggered up the whole tournament if I recall correctly. It was too light and too round apparently and everyone played like a spaz but J R Boy has coveted one ever since. He is a connoisseur of footballs. He declared this ball a trophy of the highest order and now - it's a pain in the arse. The other boys' mum spent half the afternoon wading into the lake to retrieve the bloody thing, each time declaring 'It wants to return to the water! I'll burst the damn thing myself soon.' But despite the denial of a miracle of a decent match earlier in the day we did witness one of a different sort: Little Rock Godling finally 'got' riding a bike. Praise Be!!! And now he's off. And a few days later we even have a bike for him thanks to these boys' big sister being too big and their dad and his puncture repair kit. Yay!

On different wheels, the blinkin' car had to go back in to sort the brakes again. And I'm back in the little courtesy go-kart. Suddenly all low down and the gears are down there and the handbrake's the other side and oh.... No wonder the Formula One driver's get obsessed with their set up and don't want to be in the 'spare' car if it was set up for their team-mate. Brain-sieze time. But now I've got my high up ol' bone-rattler back and .... I seem to have got used to the other thing. Keep grabbing Minx's knee instead of gear stick. This makes a funny noise. On the way home the other night we saw another silver Fiat Multipla with hazards on by the side of the road. Minx chirped 'That's normally us!' It was a bit like an out-of-body experience.

But aaaahhhhh..... the Easter holidays! Hmmmnnnnn..... Lovely holiday traffic - obviously everyone deserves a break but do it when I'm not trying to get somewhere. I've had to revert to wiggly road and mind-bending junction hopping routes to avoid sitting for 3 hours just to approach the Dartford crossing. And it's a major army manouevre to find a spot in the park where we can kick a ball without kicking someone's head in. And another thing - (used to call an ex-flatmate Anna Notherthing as she could moan for her country) - you can tell just by the state of the toilets at the ice rink that it's the holidays. Surely when we are en masse we should show extra respect - but mob rule dictates that we become way more scum-like. Moan moan moan...

But we do find our places of relative peace still - places with no rides, no burger joints, no nuffin! Perfect. Where we can just run riot like the outsider filth we are. Dirt, sweat and sunblock - the smell of summer.

Not everyone is so delighted by our behaviour. Our beloved Streetdance teacher has had enough. At the last class over half the time was wasted by the 'princess' element whineing about 'it's too hard' while he was trying to convey the notion of 'trying'. And this week a couple of the kids again decided to come and go as they pleased or sigh or scamper over to the window to god knows what.... and poor Nick finally broke. Our next class will be The Last. I don't really blame him but us 'hardcore' groovers are despondent. Haven't even broken the news to J R Boy yet - he was staying and Nan and Grandad's (yes I know I've reverted to the old incorrect spelling - what are you my mother?) house playing with the Jack Russells and big cousin. Nor sure how he's gonna take it! It does make me wonder about freedom of expression versus some sort of discipline tho'. I can't help thinking that if someone is giving you their time and imparting their knowledge that it's simple respect to listen and try to do what they're showing you. Is that Draconian of me? I don't think so. But hey.... what do I know. I'm OLD!!!!

(SO old. One of Minx's pals ran up the other day laughing 'There's this really old woman in a pink jumper on the rope swing. It's hysterical!' Minx went to see. Said she was about my age.)

No respect this lot. Especially my own lot actually. Re-dyed my barnet at the weekend. Came out a bit orange I'll admit. Minx described me to her 'Teen Group' friends as 'an orange headed freak who swears alot'. Then she called me an Orang-utan in the car as the air blast was making the front bit stick up. Mr Roving Blade declared I looked like a ventriloquist's dummy. Family loyalty. Not a phrase I'm familiar with.

I'll get back to me boxes. Packing up. Moving in a week. Started in the boys' room. Oh yes. I'm hard me. The philosophy is: if it don't fit, it ain't coming. Can I walk the walk?

Would love to free myself from the ballast and soar higher - but the comfort element? How comforting is it to be drowning in crap...... Comfort indeed - following on from an odd discussion the other day about the 'comfort' of having Jesus stuff around the house like when a child. Suppose it is Easter and all that but.... not sure this really washed with me. My line of conversation seemed to lead to Bruce Forsythe - and I can't remember how it did but it did. My mum hates Brucie. I love him - 'cos he's Brucie! My comforts from childhood.

So...... Jesus or Brucie?

Maybe it'll all come down to whoever does the best wheelies.

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